


too good to be good for me

by thistidalwave



Series: Coach Z 'verse [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Kent could just see Jack for even a minute, he thinks everything would seem more manageable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too good to be good for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runphoebe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runphoebe/gifts).



The Aces make the playoffs, and Kent… he knows he should have confidence in his team. He should be all in, ready to hit the ice and take every god damn series to seven games if that’s what it takes. He should already be feeling the ghost of the Stanley Cup in his hands and be ready to put in the work to make sure it’s not just a ghost anymore. 

He knows he should be feeling like this is _their_ year, but instead he has a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. He keeps thinking of his first year, when he was practically frothing at the mouth to win but everyone else packed it in halfway through the season, defeat already accepted. He keeps thinking of last year, when they went into the first round guns blazing and came out with nothing to show for it. He keeps thinking that this is going to be just like that. It’s even the fucking Aeros again. 

He texts Jack, and Jack doesn’t text him back until days later. It feels like he’s 18 and stepping on NHL ice for the first time, like he could skate circles around everyone and none of it would mean anything because he doesn’t have Jack to measure himself against. 

He calls Jack and leaves a long, rambling voicemail about nothing in particular, and when Jack calls him back, he doesn’t answer. He saves the voicemail Jack leaves so he can listen to Jack say barely anything over and over. _Talk to you later, Parse_ , it ends, and Kent hangs up and dials his voicemail again. 

Kent feels frayed at the edges, terrified of fucking everything up, and the guys are starting to look at him funny in the locker room. He misses Jack all the time, constant and unrelenting and normal, but right now it’s amplified, just like everything else. If Kent could just see him for even a minute, he thinks everything would seem more manageable. Jack, for all he’s hardly calm himself, has always been a remarkably calming presence for Kent. 

There’s no way Jack would want to fly out to Las Vegas—Kent only ever suggested that once, because he didn’t want to hear Jack shoot it down so flatly again. But the Aces have a few days in a row off if Kent skips an optional skate, and the way the trainers have been eyeing him lately means he knows no one will question it. He books a round-trip plane ticket to Boston before he can talk himself out of it. 

 

Samwell University is smaller in person than it looks on the map. Kent half expects to get himself lost looking for Jack’s residence building, even though he knows the address from mailing Jack’s Christmas present, but a taxi drops him off right in front of it. He tries the door only to realize it’s locked. He hovers awkwardly outside, hiding beneath the brim of his snapback, and texts Jack, _Hey, what’s up?_ in the interim before a girl opens the door with her key card. She doesn’t look twice when Kent follows her in. 

Kent _knows_ he should have let Jack know he was coming, but. Well. Jack did say he wouldn’t mind if Kent visited. At least, that’s what Kent is telling himself. It sounds a lot better than ‘I didn’t want him to tell me no’, which sounds as deeply pathetic as Kent is.

Jack’s room is on the fourth floor, right smack in the middle. Kent hesitates in front of the door long enough that someone walks by and looks at him kind of funny, and then he has to knock before people start asking questions.

The door swings open almost immediately to reveal—not Jack, but instead a guy with a moustache and some sick flow. He’s only wearing boxers, and his eyes widen when he sees Kent. 

“Holy shit, brah,” the dude says. “Kent fucking Parson, as I live and breathe.” 

Kent blinks. “Hi there,” he says, and then he very deliberately flashes his best media smile and holds out a hand. “And you are?” 

“You can call me Shitty,” the dude says, shaking Kent’s hand vigorously. 

_Shitty,_ Kent repeats in his head. _What the fuck._ He keeps smiling. “Nice to meet you. Is Jack around?” 

“Nah, but he should be back from class anytime now,” Shitty says. “You want to come in and wait?” 

“Sure, thanks,” Kent says. He can’t deny that he’s been curious about where Jack’s been living for the past eight months, and he lets his eyes sweep over the room as Shitty steps aside to let him in. 

Just like the campus, it’s smaller than Kent pictured. It’s a mirror image of itself, twin beds on opposite sides of the room matched with desks and wardrobes, but it’s immediately obvious that the far side of the room is Jack’s. The bed is made meticulously, and the desk is in perfect order, everything lined up neatly. 

“So you’re on the hockey team with Jack?” Kent asks Shitty, glancing at him and smiling encouragingly. 

“Oh yeah,” Shitty agrees as Kent wanders over to Jack’s side of the room. His eyes land on a poster that says _‘Be Better’_ on it above Jack’s bed, and he resists the urge to reach out and tear it down. He sits down on the edge of Jack’s bed instead. “Not like we get much ice time together, but it’s pretty sick to watch him out there, and he’s a great dude to hang out with. But hey, I suppose you’d know all that.” 

This time when Kent smiles at Shitty, it’s genuine. Anyone who thinks Jack is a great dude to hang out with is a good person in Kent’s book. It’s not easy to think that about Jack. “I guess I would,” he agrees. He wonders why Jack hasn’t told him very much about his roommate. He thought they just weren’t friends or something, but that’s obviously not true. “Are you a freshman as well?”

“Yeah,” Shitty confirms. “Met Jack at the prospective students weekend, actually.” 

“Huh, that’s cool,” Kent says. There’s a book on Jack’s nightstand, a bookmark tucked between its pages, and Kent picks it up without thinking. It looks like historical fiction, and when Kent flips through it, he realizes the bookmark is actually a picture of Jack and Shitty. Shitty is wearing fake reindeer antlers and a garland around his neck, and Jack’s got on a Santa hat. Shitty’s arm is thrown around Jack’s shoulder as he cheeses for the camera, and the corner of Jack’s mouth is turned up slightly in the shy smile Kent knows well. Kent stares. 

“That’s from the Chrismukkwanzaa party,” Shitty says. Kent jumps and shuts the book hurriedly; he hadn’t even noticed Shitty come to stand beside him. “I had to drag Jack to it, but I’m pretty sure he had a good time, so it was worth it.” 

“He doesn’t go out much, does he,” Kent says. He means it as a question, because he genuinely doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want Shitty to know that. 

Shitty shrugs. “He’s a studious guy,” he says, and Kent tries to remember if he ever saw Jack even crack open a textbook in juniors. 

“When it comes to hockey,” Kent says carefully, and Shitty nods. 

“When it comes to everything, I think,” Shitty says. “We didn’t make the playoffs, so he’s been in the library studying for finals all the time lately.” 

“You didn’t make the playoffs?” Kent asks. He should have known that already. Why didn’t he know that?

“Nah, brah,” Shitty says. “But hey, you did, right? That’s gotta be sick, right?” 

Kent nods. He feels kind of nauseous all of a sudden. Sitting here, looking at Jack’s things and listening to Shitty talk about him, Kent is all too aware of how much of Jack’s life he doesn’t know anything about. He abruptly feels awful for being here uninvited. He might desperately want Jack to be part of his life, but it’s more obvious than ever that Jack doesn’t want Kent to be part of his. 

He starts trying to figure out how he can gracefully get out of here without raising Shitty’s suspicions, but of course, because Kent made this bed, that’s when Jack comes into the room. He stops short, letting the door fall closed behind him, and says, “Kent?” like all the air just got punched out of his lungs.

Kent plasters a smile to his face and waves. “Hey, Zimms.”

Jack looks exhausted, the dark circles around his eyes pronounced, but other than that he looks—good. Great, even. He looks comfortable in his Samwell Men’s Hockey sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair falling into his eyes. Kent never wants to stop looking at him. He should never have fucking come here.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asks, tone accusing, and Kent cringes.

“Whoa,” Shitty says, looking back and forth between them. 

“I wanted to see you,” Kent manages. It’s the truth, but it falls flat. 

“Did you,” Jack says, eyebrows raised, and Kent shrugs. He doesn’t know what Jack wants him to say. They’re both silent for a long moment, staring at each other, and eventually Kent breaks eye contact and looks down at the floor.

“Can you give us a minute, Shitty?” Jack asks, and Kent glances up to see Shitty frown. 

“Okay,” Shitty says slowly. “I’ll give you more than a minute, actually. I’m gonna… go to the library. It was nice talking to you, Kent.” 

“Nice talking to you, too,” Kent says. He keeps his eyes on the floor the entire time Shitty is pulling on clothes and shoving things in a bag before he leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and Kent hears Jack sigh. 

“He’s nice,” Kent offers.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “What do you want, Kent?” 

Kent frowns. He doesn’t really know what he wants, is the thing. He wanted to see Jack, but here he is, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. Things used to be so easy, and now even just sitting here is hard. “Why do I have to want something?” he asks. 

“Well, you sure don’t live in the area,” Jack says. “Don’t you have hockey to play?”

Kent bristles. “Had a few days off before the playoffs,” he says.

Jack snorts. “Right. I forgot that you like to spend those flying cross-country when no one asked you to instead of actually doing your job.” 

“I do my job just fine,” Kent snaps. He shakes his head. Now that he knows Jack’s team didn’t make their own playoffs it seems important to make sure Jack knows Kent didn’t come to lord over him. “I just…”

Jack waits, staring, while Kent tries to figure out what the end of that sentence is supposed to be. “You just what?” Jack eventually asks. 

Kent gives up. “Playoffs are freaking me out,” he says, blunt. “I feel like I’m going to fuck everything up.”

Jack looks confused. “It’s hockey,” he says, like that’s the answer to everything, and something unfurls in Kent’s chest. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re right.” 

“Is that all?” Jack asks. Kent can see the ghost of a smirk behind his eyes, and he wants so badly to draw it the rest of the way out. “You could have called for that, Kenny.” 

Kent shakes his head. Even if they’d Skyped it wouldn’t have been the same. “I missed you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jack’s expression turns dark, any trace of laughter gone. Kent is standing and stepping closer to him before he really processes it, trying desperately to reverse whatever it was he just did. “You can’t just show up whenever you feel like it,” Jack says.

Kent can’t help it; he laughs. If he did _that_ , he would show up at Jack’s every single time he had a free day.

“It’s not funny,” Jack says. 

“Is that really what you think I do?” Kent asks. He takes another step toward Jack, and Jack doesn’t move. Kent can practically feel his skin buzzing. He hasn’t been this close to Jack since—well. Kent doesn’t exactly want to think about it. 

“Isn’t it?” Jack asks, voice soft. Kent is close enough that he has to tilt his head up to look at Jack. He reaches out and touches Jack’s wrist tentatively, and to his surprise, Jack relaxes, his shoulders visibly releasing tension. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. They were always good at touching. It’s talking that’s hard, even though they’ve been practicing it for a while now. 

“It isn’t,” Kent forces himself to say. 

Jack is looking down at him, his eyes searching Kent’s face. “What do you do, then?” 

Kent can’t help himself; he leans up and presses his lips to Jack’s. Jack makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and a second later he kisses Kent back. For a long moment, Kent feels exactly like he did back in the Q, his stomach flipping over and his heart beating double time in his throat. 

Jack puts his hand on Kent’s lower back and pulls him in, biting at Kent’s lower lip slightly, and Kent feels like he’s being slowly stripped apart so Jack can see his messy insides. Kent figures that comes with the territory—when you’re not good at talking, the physical takes on a whole new meaning. 

A moment later, Jack pushes him away. “I can’t,” he says. 

Kent presses his fingers to his lips like he can capture the feel of Jack kissing him like that. “Why not?” he asks. “Come on, Jack. We’re good together.” 

“You can’t say that,” Jack says. “You can’t come here and do that and try and—”

“What, Jack?” Kent asks. He’s pissed now, his guards snapping back up full-force after Jack so easily took them down. “What am I trying to do?” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Jack says. “But whatever it is, you should stop. You have a team to think about. I can’t do anything to help you.” 

It’s so far from the truth that Kent wants to scream. It’s hard to believe that after so long, Jack still doesn’t seem to understand how Kent feels about him. If he didn’t need Jack, Kent would have moved on a long time ago. 

“I can’t help my team when all I can think about is you,” Kent says. 

Jack stares at him. Kent stares back, unwilling to give an inch on this even though he can feel himself starting to shake with nerves. 

“Jack—” he starts, voice cracking.

“Kent,” Jack says. He’s shaking his head, and Kent feels like he’s stomping on his heart. “Kenny, I… Then you have to stop thinking about me.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, voice hoarse. “Yeah, okay. I get it.” And as much as he doesn’t understand Jack sometimes, he thinks he really does get it this time. Jack belongs here, in his dorm room at his tiny university, with his shitty hockey team and his new best friend, and Kent belongs in Las Vegas, in his empty apartment with a view, with the team that took him in and trusted him to build them up.

“I think it would be best if we took a break,” Jack says.

Kent snorts. “We’re not together, remember?” He doesn’t try to disguise his bitterness. 

Jack visibly cringes. “I mean. I just,” he fumbles awkwardly. “You need to focus on the playoffs. I have final exams. We can’t keep going back to this.” 

Kent wants to laugh at that; Jack is all he ever wants to go back to. He bites his tongue. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” he says instead. 

“I don’t want you to contact me for a while,” Jack says. 

Kent clenches his jaw to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. Coming here was probably the worst thing he could have done, but he doesn’t think he would do it differently if he had the chance. He needed this. He’s always going to need Jack. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding carefully. He heads for the door, and then pauses, hand on the doorknob. He turns around to look at Jack. “For the record, I don’t regret coming. It was good to see you.”

Jack’s answering smile is tiny and pained. “Sorry you came all this way.”

Kent shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jack nods, looking away and then back at Kent. “Bye, Kent,” he says quietly. 

“See you, Zimms,” Kent says, and then he leaves, shutting the door firmly behind himself so he can’t give in to temptation and try to argue his way out of this.


End file.
